Day 1
Sent at 06:02
Sherlock?
Sent at 06:14
I know you don't usually do groceries, but we're out of milk.
Sent at 06:15
Can you get some on your way back?
Sent at 09:54
Oh come on, doing the shopping for once wont hurt you!
Sent at 13:20
Fine, be like that
Sent at 14:01
What, you want me to beg?
Sent at 14:03
Or you just sulking because I didnt applaud your little performance yesterday?
Sent at 14:12
fine. it was brilliant. kudos to you. that what you want me to say?
Sent at 14:14
walking off a building sherlock. jesus. your dramatic flare knows no bounds does it
Sent at 14:15
you got me alright
Sent at 14:17
but seriously, can you get that milk now? i cant leave the flat rightnow
Sent at 14:38
just this once
Sent at 16:58
please sherlock, just this one time
Sent at 17:01
bring milk jusr thisone time
Sent at 23:19
please
Day 76
Draft_1, last edited 21:31
Dear Sherlock,
/-deleted/This is the 76th day sinc/deleted-/
/-deleted/My new therapist is/deleted-/
/-deleted/I don't know how to g/deleted-/
You know all of that though, don't you.
Or you would, would you still be here. Wouldn't even need me to be present for this conversation, probably. No, of course not. You'd just fill in my words before I could utter a single one of them, and they would be perfect. You'd know exactly what I mean to say.
God, that would be so much easier than… whatever this is. Not a conversation, certainly. I'm not smart enough to guess the exact words you would use. Not that it ever stops me from trying.
I tackled a stranger in a parking lot today. He didn't even look that much like you.
Ella says it would be healthy for me to leave 221B, so I guess I ought to start apartment hunting one of these days. Tomorrow, perhaps. That might make her happy, for a change. I don't think she's satisfied with my progress. Nobody seems to be, lately.
Lestrade took my gun. He must have taken it at least two weeks ago, because he hasn't been in here since then. Such an amazing deduction, isn't it.
I only noticed ten minutes ago.
/-deleted/If you ever plan on jumping from behind the curtain and laugh at dear old John's priceles expression now wold be the time for/deleted-/
You aren't buying that milk Sherlock, are you? No last miracle for me.
I don't know what to do with that.
I don't know if I ca_
Day 189
Draft_2, last edited 05:11
Dear Sherlock,
/-deleted/I'm sorry I didn't go to your funeral/deleted-/
/-deleted/I met Mrs. Hudson the other day and/deleted-/
Apparently I still don't know how to do this. Ella will be disappointed.
I'm sorry.
Sincerely,
John_
Day 230
Draft_3, last edited 23:29
Sherlock,
I went on a date today and imagined what you'd say about her only four times. I'll call this progress, because if I don't then that means I haven't made any since you left and that's just not acceptable at this point.
She's a new nurse at the clinic. Didn't seem to be warned off of me yet, but I expect someone to give her 'the speech' before our second date. No matter. She's nice but we don't have too much in common as it turns out.
I also went back to Baker Street last Thursday. Didn't stay long and didn't dare to go upstairs – not quite there yet – but I shared tea and biscuits with Mrs. Hudson. She looked to be on the verge of tears only for the first half an hour or so.
You're a right bastard for doing this, I hope you know that. Leaving a note, you said. You left a note alright.
Hope you're happy with it.
John_
Day 317
Sent at 22:53
fuck you ,sherlpck
Day 328
Draft_4, last edited 02:48
Dear Sherlock,
I'm sorry for that message the other day. Not that you read it, or will ever read it, but still. It was uncalled for.
I met someone. She's smart and beautiful and we spent the entirety of last week almost constantly in bed. Her name is Mary, and she seems to be the first person who doesn't say things that remind me of you every goddamn five minutes. I think I'm going to marry her, someday, if she agrees.
There were memories I didn't dare revisit until recently, about you. Some more significant than others, like how my pinkie finger dipped into your blood on the pavement when I reached for you and despite being a witness to your fall, I only started to panic – to really panic – when I realized the red liquid was actually warm, and how I almost burst out in a hysteric laugh at the lengths I imagined you put into your little shtick.
Others bear far less weight, like that one time you turned up in my bed in the middle of the night, wrapped up in a gazillion sheets and shivering violently, claiming that a fevered mind cannot be held accountable for navigating its owner to the wrong bedroom. You sneered at me when I offered to make you soup and nearly bit my hand off when I tried to feel your temperature on your forehead, but for all the bark and constant stream of complaints about my mattress and the 'frankly offending' volume I was breathing at, you still refused to move. You didn't sleep a minute for six days afterwards, and I wish I had asked you why that was, while I still had the chance to ask you questions.
The good and the bad memories don't seem that different, at least not in the amount of pain they still elicit.
Ella says that's normal. But then again, she says 'that's normal' for nearly everything.
I miss you Sherlock. I'm starting to realize that's probably never going to change.
I think I'm going to be okay, now.
Yours,
John_
Day 364
Draft_5, last edited 20:15
Dear Sherlock,
Greg punched me in the face. One minute we're watching a game in a pub in peace and relative quiet, and the next I'm clutching at my bloodied nose and we're being ushered outside by the staff.
The last time I was thrown out of a pub was with you, obviously. Good times.
Greg took my scarf (your scarf) and told me (screamed at me) that I had to stop waiting for you to come back, that I'm not being fair to myself, to Mary, to you. In my defense, I didn't realize I was doing it.
His right hook might leave a lot to be desired, but ultimately Greg is right, so this is what I'm going to do:
I'm going to visit your grave tomorrow morning, on your anniversary. I'll bring you flowers you would sneer at and hate with a passion you usually reserve for solving puzzles, and I will bring Mary along because… because.
In the afternoon, I will go back to 221B, collect all my stuff that's still there, and possibly help Mrs. Hudson box up the rest so she could rent the place again if she decides so. We will chat about whether Mycroft will want to keep your violin, she's going to place a request for the story behind the bullet holes in the wall – again, and I may or may not ask her about the yellow circle of paint on the wallpaper, even though I know it will be me who ends up reciting the story behind that too.
Then I'm going to buy a ring, and ask Mary to marry me.
Now, I know exactly what you would say to that one: too soon, we've only been together for a few weeks, statistics about marriages ending in a divorce, the probability of her cheating on me within the month because of some astute deduction you'd base on the color of her nails.
I'd agree with most of it – sans the latter, but the thing is, I think she is going to say yes. We might be moving a bit too fast for society's standards, but it fits us.
Sherlock, I cannot envision a future without Mary.
We're going to move in together, save up a bit and possibly buy a house in the suburbs. She wants a cat, two kids and a fireplace, and I want her so I'm going to do my best to deliver all that.
I'll take up more hours at the clinic, start learning Serbian (there's been a surprising surge in Serbian patients lately), and while I will never be able to forget about you (not that I'd want to), eventually, hopefully, I'm going to start talking about you in past tense.
Someday.
Good bye, Sherlock.
Yours,
John_
Day 365
"John? Why aren't you sleeping?"
Mary's voice is croaky and a bit nasal as she turns towards me in the darkness of the room, and my breath hitches for a moment when I realize I woke her up.
I dim the display of my cellphone in a haste, mostly to hide the expression I know must be present on my face, but it's too late. I catch a glimpse of the furrow of her brows before I put the phone on the nightstand: she's concerned.
"It's nothing," I try to infuse an audible smile into my voice, hoping it doesn't sound as strained to her ears as it does to mine. "Just the clinic. False alarm."
I lean in and reach for her frame blindly, manage to push a kiss against her shoulder, and my smile turns a tad more genuine against her skin. I love how she always seems to smell of strawberries. "Go back to sleep," I say and she hums in approval, already settling back against my chest.
"Aren't you supposed have this day off?"
The lie comes to me without conscious thought or delay, which should be a much scarier thought than it actually is, but guilt is no match to my primary concern of placating Mary.
She's not supposed to be worried. Not over this.
"Hence the false alarm," the words are escorted with a breathless little laugh, and Mary buys it without a second thought. She has no cause for doubt – I never lied to her before, after all. "They paged the wrong guy."
"Well," she runs her fingers over my arm that's settled against her waist, and giggles a little at the way I shiver in response. "I could find something to do for this wrong guy, if he's sure he's not needed elsewhere."
I pull her against me with a force she doesn't expect and she squeals in delight, kicking at my shin in mock fight.
"Oh, he's very, very sure."
Her answering laugh is pure happiness, and I never, ever want to hear any other sounds for the rest of my life, except for maybe—
I glance at the nightstand guiltily before I kiss her, knowing all to well what lies in the outbox of my text messages.
God, I need to stop doing that.
Sent at 00:13
Sherlock… please.
Day 402
Draft_6, last edited 01:36
Dear Sherlock,
Happy Birthday. I'm sorry I forgot about it last year. I suppose grief and the denial of your
/-deleted/dea/deleted-/
/-deleted/loss/deleted-/
death overshadowed such intricacies for a while, back then.
Mary said yes. We're getting married in August. I wish you could be there as my best man.
I never thought I'd say this about… well, anyone, really, but I think you'd like her. She bought me a pink cane and bribes me into using it in public, on occasion. It's oddly fun.
She seems to enjoy listening to my tales about you, which I discovered while she helped Mrs. Hudson and I clean 221B. I kept your violin, by the way. Mary said Mycroft would have taken it already if he wanted it, and that it would be nice to remember you by something you obviously used to love.
She doesn't seem to think you were incapable of experiencing a full spectrum of human feelings, not like most people who met or heard about you before. She also said I made the two of us sound like we were a twisted kind of couple. I should have probably corrected her, but she looked more intrigued than resentful, and besides, there's no point to it anymore, is there.
Greg asked for my assistance on a case, if you'll believe it. Something about army weapons – I'm not all clear on the details yet, but he's coming over tomorrow with the necessary files.
He gave me a very nice version of the 'when I said you should move on, I didn't mean you should jump into marriage' speech, but promised to give my gun back after the wedding.
/-deleted/Things are… not as bad as/deleted-/
I think I'm ready to be happy again.
Wherever you are Sherlock, I sincerely hope you are happy
/-deleted/, too/deleted-/
/-deleted/ , too/deleted-/
/-deleted/ , too/deleted-/
/-deleted/ , too/deleted-/
.
Yours,
John_
Day 436
"Do you love her, John?"
Ella has no expectations, I know. There's no right or wrong answer to that question, and yet, I find myself wondering if she would advise against the marriage if I said no.
"Yes," I inflate the word with as much confidence as I feel, which is not much, sadly. I think I answered honestly, but God only knows if I'm genuinely in love or only trying to stuff Mary into a Sherlock-shaped hole with a desperation I'm terrified to acknowledge even on my better days.
Ella studies me for a few heartbeats longer than what would be comfortable, but thankfully she seems to find whatever she's looking for after a minute or two. Her lips curl into the tentative beginnings of a smile, and for the first time since I began to attend these sessions, I know she's not scribbling down something negative on her stack of papers.
Huh. Looks like I'm in love then.
Day 449
"So," Lestrade hovers in the doorway after collecting the last of the documents, and I suddenly get the feeling this case was just some kind of test that is rapidly approaching its evaluation phase. "You look happy."
Bingo.
I smile in reassurance because Greg became a good friend over the last year, and he deserves better than a mate he constantly needs to worry about. I'm not his problem.
"I am," I throw out easily, and it's not a lie. I think. I'm getting more and more sure every day.
Greg studies me for a long minute (people are starting to make a habit of that), then gives an amenable grunt as a response and clasps a hand around my shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze.
"Good. That's good, John."
He exhales, looking like a stone has been lifted off his shoulders. A rather enormous one. Oh.
"Here," his hand disappears behind his back for a second, and when it reemerges something is shoved against the bare skin on my forearm. Something cold and metallic.
My gun.
I extend my fingers in a light daze, but Lestrade holds it out of reach, a dangerous glint settling in his eyes.
"Don't be stupid now, John."
It's hard to say whether that's a command or a plea, but my answering nod must come across as a good enough promise because half an hour later Greg is back at the Yard, and my SIG is safely tucked away in my dresser, at the bottom of a drawer Mary would never look for.
I must be doing better than I thought, I guess.
Day 461
Sent at 01:50
You need to come back, Sherlock. You need to take my gun away.
Sent at 01:59
Please, take my gun away.
Day 480
"Oh John, you didn't have to. It's lovely, thank you."
Mrs. Hudson takes the flowers and hurries to put them in a vase, an act which is quickly followed by an offering of tea and pleasant conversation at her kitchen table.
Neither of us mentions how the flat above is still free from tenants. I briefly consider offering to help finding someone, but at this part of London the reason is likely not a lack of possible applicants, so I decide to keep my mouth shut and focus on making Mrs. Hudson laugh at the expense of my newfound preference for a mustache. I get the feeling laughing is not something she does often enough nowadays.
At one point, the conversation settles into a comfortable lull, and I know what's coming even before she settles her mind on whether to place the question or not. I've been the subject of the same scrutinizing gaze way too often not to recognize it by now.
"How are you doing John, really?"
The weight of Mrs. Hudson's stare settles over me with the delicacy of a freight train, but I feel the corners of my eyes lift in a smile despite feeling like the single greatest disappointment in the history of humankind. God, how self-absorbed I must have been to worry her at such depth.
"I'm good," I enunciate the words with more care than usual, testing them for cracks and breaks and chipped edges. I don't find any, and the realization makes my smile widen. "I'm doing good, Mrs. Hudson."
The expression lighting up her face is honest and raw and more than a bit teary, but if her crushing hug is any indication, it's far from a bad one.
Day 483
Sent at 03:02
Sherlock?
Day 512
Draft_7, last edited 18:10
Dear Sherlock,
Mycroft invited me over to his home (palace? secret agency building? torture dungeon?) for dinner on Saturday. Well, me and Mary technically, but there's no way I'm subjecting her to the more psychotic one of the Holmes brothers – no offense.
Also, not sure if I can safely rule the torture dungeon out of the options, so… no. I'm doing this alone.
I wonder what he wants though, after falling off the radar – well, my radar, at least – the moment you died. Hope he's not going to start reminiscing about you, because God knows I do more than enough of that on my own, despite my better judgement. Not that he strikes me as the warm and fuzzy type who would do something like that, but I've seen stranger things happen.
Usually in your company.
I invited Harry for our wedding, after a brief spat with Mary. Spat might be too strong a word, but it's all I've got right now. It's nice, knowing she's not going to just up and leave at the merest suggestion of a problem.
/-deleted/Thank God for that, because I know exactly where I would be without her in my life, and it's not something I like to think about./deleted-/
The tremor in my left hand is back. Oddly, I'm hoping your brother might actually have some useful insight on that, being the first one who picked up on its origin and all. Mary keeps assuring me she would be happy to have a groom with an ugly cane and a trembling hand at the altar, but if the presence of your brother could scare at least one of those features away temporarily, then I honestly wouldn't mind having him at the reception.
Well, that's another sentence I never thought I would utter – or in this case write down – one day.
The date of the wedding is getting nearer and nearer, and I still find myself unable to imagine it without you by my side.
/-deleted/I'd like to think I know better than to ask you to pop in by now, but on the off-chance I'm/deleted-/
Guess I will never have a basis for comparison in what your presence would change, so it doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm going to miss you, Sherlock.
Also, I kind of want to punch you in the face for missing my wedding, among other things. But mainly I'm just going to miss you.
Be good, Sherlock.
Yours,
John_
Day 515 / Day 0
Sent at 21:10
Sherlock?
Received at 21:11
John. -SH
Sent at 23:15
oh christ sherlock
Sent at 23:15
god
Sent at 23:16
you bastard
Received at 23:17
Indeed. I take it Mycroft told you everything, yes? -SH
Sent at 23:17
i hate you so much
Received at 23:18
I'm aware. -SH
Sent at 23:19
youre really, really not
Received at 23:19
Are you willing to enlighten me in person, then? -SH
Sent at 23:45
no
Received at 23:45
No? -SH
Sent at 23:52
No, Sherlock. I'm not meeting you.
Sent at 23:53
I can't.
Received at 23:54
Not now, or not ever? -SH
Sent at 23:58
I don't know. Not ever, maybe.
Day 1
Received at 03:40
I understand. For what it's worth, I'm truly sorry. -SH
Sent at 03:44
thas not worth shit,sherloc
Received at 03:45
I'm aware. -SH
Sent at 03:56
no ,yuor reallyreally not